He parks in the garage, then flips on the lights as we come into the kitchen, dumping his keys and bags onto the counter. He tosses me a couple of towels from a top drawer. “I’d offer you some whiskey to warm you up, but after what you just told me in the car, you’re going to have to settle for hot tea.”

I drop one under my feet and use the other to sop up the worst of the rain from my hair, biting down on my molars to stop my teeth from chattering. “Tea would be perfect. Thanks.”

He fills an electric kettle at the sink, flips on the switch. “Bags are in the cabinet above the microwave. Make yourself at home. I’ll go see what clothes I can scrounge up.”

He disappears upstairs, and I select a box of green tea, then wander into the living room with the dish towel, bypassing the matching leather couches for a spot at the back window. Like Paul’s, Micah’s house is perched high on a hill, flush with the treetops for spectacular views of the water. Tonight there’s nothing but blackness where the lake should be, but that’s not the direction I’m looking. I’m looking through the trees, staring at the house I’ve called home for the past year.

It’s lit up like a bonfire, golden light pouring from every downstairs window, the kitchen and the living area and Paul’s study. Paul must be home, looking for me. Even the sides of the house I can’t see are glowing, the wet trees and grass glittering with reflected light. I stare through the branches, trying to pick up movement behind the glass, but I can’t tell if the motion is coming from inside the house or from the wind shaking the trees.

The ceiling squeaks above my head, bare feet moving across an uncarpeted portion of the floor. The low hum of his voice, worming its way through the wooden planks. It probably wasn’t fair to Micah, asking him to lie to a friend, but I didn’t know what else to do. I just pray he’s not up there talking to Paul.

I slide my phone from my pocket and text Chet. I’m at Micah’s. If you talk to Paul, do NOT tell him where I am. And freaking call me asap. I need you.

I turn at Micah’s footsteps on the stairs, a thick stack of clothing balanced on an arm. He’s changed into fresh jeans and a hooded sweatshirt, but his hair is still damp. “Here,” he says, handing me the pile. “Something in here should fit.”

“Thanks.”